Down to the Sea (2 page)

Abraham was the last of their children, born the autumn after the end of the war, and he had grown up far too quickly. Andrew saw him coming through the crowd, which was swarming up around the speaker’s platform. His arm was thrown around his closest friend, Sean O’Donald, wearing the sky blue uniform of a newly commissioned pilot.

Andrew quickly wiped away his tears, and Kathleen, forcing a smile, went up to embrace him. The boys stopped, both of them grinning, and snapped off their salutes to the president. Andrew, putting on his stovepipe hat, returned the salute. The hat, in fact the entire ceremonial outfit of the presidency on this world, made him feel more than a bit self-conscious. Old Kal was the first to adopt the stovepipe hat, black morning coat, and chin whiskers of the legendary Lincoln, and forever impressed in the mind of the populace that this was what a president was supposed to wear. In his first term as president, Andrew had reluctantly adopted it.

As the Constitution demanded, a president could serve only one six-year term, and for twelve years he had been out of office, though he had accepted a seat on the Supreme Court and, at the same time, had returned to his first profession, that of a college professor.

The Chin crisis, however, had forced his return to the political arena. The Chin had created something he had always hoped to avoid, a political party based on power for one ethnic group, a disastrous development for a nation he had dreamed could somehow merge itself together into a single entity that ignored national origin and race.

In writing the Constitution he had (and would admit to no one that it was deliberate) left out any restriction against nonconsecutive terms and thus ran for president again. The Chin had mounted an opposition, but all the other states rallied to Keane and it had been a landside. In the first hundred days of office he rammed through dozens of hills and several constitutional amendments, the key ones being that English would forever be the official language of the state. The argument was simple: of all the fighting units the men of the 35th Maine and the 44th New York, who represented no particular group, had fought to free all people. English was the compromise that favored no one state of the Republic over the others.

He had carried it off, cooled the crisis, and, combined with an explosion of economic growth, the Republic was now flourishing.

Kathleen stepped past him, sweeping Abraham into her arms. The boy looked over at Andrew, smiling indulgently. He knew his mother would never accept the fact that he had already grown up.

He could see Kathleen in the boy’s fair complexion, the wisp of reddish hue to his hair, but he saw his own eyes in the boy, pale blue, but deep and filled with intensity.

Sean O’Donald stood behind him, so unlike his father, so much his Roum mother; tall, slender, dark eyes, jet black hair. So like his mother as well in spirit: quiet, introspective, stunning in intellect. It was hard to believe that here was the son of the brawling artilleryman Pat O’Donald.

Pat came up behind the two boys and clapped both of them on the shoulders. “Congratulations, me boys,” he said, his voice filled with emotion.

He was breathing hard, florid features bright red from the noonday heat, and undoubtedly from the “nip of the cruel,” as he put it, that increasingly controlled his life. Throughout the war Pat had reveled in the shock of combat, but after the death of Hans, something seemed to slip away. Like so many veterans, he was haunted by having seen more than any one man should bear and having carried one too many burdens.

Sean stiffened and turned to face his father. “Good morning, sir, and thank you.”

Pat’s gaze caught Andrew’s for a second. He seemed to want to hug the boy, but instead just extended his beefy hand, which Sean took, held for a second, and let drop.

Abraham, at last free of his mother’s tearful embrace, stepped back and smiled.

Two more newly commissioned officers came up to join them, and Andrew turned to acknowledge them.

“Father,” Abraham announced, “may I introduce two of my friends, Flight Officer Adam Rosovich and Flight Officer Richard Cromwell.”

The two snapped to attention and saluted. Andrew returned the salute, his old military bearing still with him, then extended his hand.

Adam he vaguely knew by sight, Cromwell by the controversy that had surrounded his admission to the Naval Academy. His father was, after all, the arch traitor of the war; the overplayed villain in more than one of the melodramas so popular now in the playhouses. He was five years older than most of the cadets, his mother a Merki slave who had survived the slaughter pits and annihilation that had destroyed most of Cartha when the wars ended.

When Cromwell had presented himself to the admissions board, claiming the right of the son of a veteran of the original Yankees who had come to this world, it had triggered outrage and, at first, a denial. Then Andrew had directly intervened, making a special ruling that any son of a Yankee could claim admission if he passed the boards.

He looked into Cromwell’s eyes, never having met him, and in that instant judged his decision to be a sound one. Cromwell returned his gaze unswervingly, and he sensed that the bitter years of survival as a slave had bred a toughness in the young man that few of this generation now had, having grown up in a world of peace.

He was almost as tall as Andrew at six foot four and slender to the point of looking gaunt, a clear sign of the malnourishment he had suffered as a child growing up a slave in the enemy camps. But it was evident that he was hard, his wiry frame taut and strong. His left cheek was marked with a pale scar that cut from the ear to the corner of his mouth, most likely a blow from a whip or dagger, and Andrew suspected that if this young man took his dress uniform off, a body cut by such scars would be revealed.

Millions of Chin and Cartha had suffered thus when the Hordes had stopped in their migrations to fight the Republic, turning the people of those two nations into slaves and a source of food. That any of the children of that generation had survived was a miracle. When the Merki had abandoned the Cartha realm, they had systematically slaughtered more than a million people. Cromwell was but one of a few thousand children to survive the nightmare.

His grip was firm. He hesitated for a second, then finally spoke.

“Mr. President, thank you for intervening on my behalf.”

“Don’t thank me, Cromwell. Though some do not care for the name you carry, I will say that I knew your father and believe the reports that in his last seconds he had a change of heart and died serving the Republic. I think we’ve made a good bet on you, son. Just prove us right.”

Cromwell solemnly nodded his thanks, his dark features again revealing a toughness that Andrew sensed could be dangerous in a fight.

“Father, we got our orders. We head out this evening and, well, we sort of want to . . Abraham’s voice trailed off.

Andrew looked back at his son. Such a contrast, he thought, between his own boy and Cromwell. Abraham, bom after the war, had known only peace and saw the old conflict in a hazy, romantic light. Cromwell was old enough to know different and had been shaped by that knowledge. Andrew wondered how his boy would look a year from now and felt a sudden stab of fear.

Things were happening, out in their adopted world, and all his old instincts told him that there was a storm on the horizon. He feared it would soon wash over them and perhaps sweep his son away.

Abraham was waiting for an answer, and Andrew forced a smile. “I know, head down to the Mouse for a few.”

The Roaring Mouse was a tavern run by one of former president Kal’s nephews, a legendary haunt amongst the cadets. The place was supposedly strictly off limits while they were in the academy, but it would go out of business if that rule was observed.

“Your assignments?” Andrew asked.

“You know where I’m heading, and, sir, it bothers me,” Abraham announced.

“Orders are to be obeyed whether you like them or not,” Andrew said with mock severity. “The fact that you are assigned to General Hawthorne’s staff has nothing to do with politics. You scored in the top five of your class, that’s the usual slot, so not another word on it.”

It was an outright lie, but after all the years of service, he felt he had the right to ensure that his only surviving son was safe for a while.

Abraham looked around at his friends, obviously a bit relieved by his father’s statement, which showed that he had not tried to pull for such a plum assignment.

“And the rest of you?” Andrew asked.

“Air reconnaissance officer on the
Gettysburg
,” Cromwell replied.

“Naval Ordnance Development Board,” Rosovich replied, a slight note of disappointment in his voice.

“You don’t sound happy, lieutenant,” Andrew said with a smile.

“Ah, yes, sir, I am.”

It was an obvious lie.

“He wanted a field assignment,” Abraham interjected, and Andrew could sense that his son was playing a little game. Most likely Adam had pressed him to try for a last-minute change of assignments.

“Mr. Rosovich, if you were selected for the Development Board, it was undoubtedly because Professor Ferguson asked for you. I’d guess you scored in the top of your class in flight engineering.”

Adam reluctantly nodded his head. “Yes, sir, I did.”

“Then the finest service you could perform for the Republic is to take this assignment. Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of chances later for a flight squadron.”

Adam smiled politely, his gambit an obvious failure.

Sean O’Donald, who had been standing quietly to one side, finally spoke up. “Air reconnaissance officer on the
Gettysburg
as well, sir,” he announced.

Pat looked over anxiously at Andrew, and in that flicker was a subtle indication that Pat would have preferred something far safer.

“They must think highly of your ability to put you with our navy’s newest armored cruiser.”

“I asked for it, sir.”

Andrew nodded, saying nothing.

He looked at the four young officers, all of them filled with such hopes and enthusiasm this day, all looking so proper and elegant in their dress uniforms. In the crowd gathered below the platform, he saw more than one young lady waiting patiently, gazes fixed on their chosen beaus. He smiled inwardly, wondering how long the comrades would actually stay together at the Mouse before secretly heading off for a final, brief rendezvous. They were all shipping out today. That was another tradition of the service, to send out the new cadets on their graduation day, and he suspected that more than one would make a promise of marriage once their first six-month tour of duty was up. He silently prayed that they’d still be alive to keep those promises.

“Go on, boys. Abraham, your mother and I will see you off later at the station.”

Again the smiling salutes and the four comrades turned, leaping off the platform to disappear into the crowd. Andrew’s thoughts turned toward his own affairs. Other burdens now awaited him. a congressman from Constantine, corrupt as the summer day was long, was looking for yet another government job for a “nephew.” And Father Casmir, now a member of the Supreme Court, wanted to argue yet again about the Ming Proposal. Behind them, Andrew could picture all the other seekers, flesh pressers, hangers-on, critics, and false praisers.

So now I look like Lincoln, he thought, absently reaching up to touch the gray chin whiskers, which Kathleen, in private, kept threatening to cut while he was asleep. As he looked over at her, a flash of pride and love swept through him, for already she had composed herself. She was turning to sidetrack a senator whom she knew was a gadfly to Andrew, charming the man with compliments about his far too young wife.

Pat pressed in closer. “Times I wish we could erase all these years, be back at our tent at the front, sharing a bottle with Emil and Hans.”

“The old days are gone, Pat. It’s a new age now.”

“Ah, I know, Andrew darlin’, I know. It’s just hard to believe how quickly it changed.”

“Your boy looks fit. He’ll do well.”

Pat lowered his head, and an audible sigh escaped him. “He never cared for me, you could see that today. I’ve tried to make amends, I have.”

Andrew was silent—for what could be said? The boy, like Abraham, has been bom the autumn after the end of the war, his mother of Roum aristocracy, a niece of old Proconsul Marius. And Pat had never married her. Andrew, Emil, all of Pat’s friends, had tried to push him on the issue, but he would laugh, then sigh and say he could never be tied down, and Livia, the darling, understood that.

And yet she gave the boy his father’s name, raised him with love, and waited for the soldier she loved to one day acknowledge the truth of their union. She had died waiting. Only then had Pat realized his mistake, but by then it was far too late. Though the boy accepted his father’s recognition now, there was no love.

Pat wistfully watched as his boy fell in with the others, disappearing into the crowd.

“Pat, we do have to talk later.”

“What?”

“I don’t want word of this getting out, but I want your opinion on recent events.”

Three events, unrelated on the surface, had occurred in the last month, and he alone was privy to all of them. Hawthorne had brought the first news, an anomaly noticed a week ago at an obscure outpost named Tamira’s Bridge, where a skirmish had erupted between the cavalry and a rogue gang of Bantag riders. One of the dead Bantag was carrying a revolver. It was not an old remnant of the Great War, but a modern weapon; in fact, better than anything the Republic could manufacture.

The second was political: yet another flare-up by the Xing Sha movement in the state of Chin, calling for separation from the Republic and renouncing the treaty with the Bantag. The annoying madness would consume yet more time and struggle to try and hold the expanding Republic together and keep it from fragmenting apart into rival states.

The third one, though, worried him the most. It had preyed on his thoughts even while giving his speech on what was supposed to be a day of happiness and pride. A courier bearing a sealed dispatch from Admiral Bullfinch, headquartered down in Constantine, the main base of the Republic’s fleet on the Great Southern Sea, had arrived only minutes before he left the White House this morning.